Galumphing about

Saw "Killing Them Softly" the other day with Brad Pitt. Not bad.

A little ham handed with political reference but beautifully shot* and well acted.  Also had an intermittent pacing that seemed organic and de-glamorized the mob thing.

Plus Pitt plays hard and cynical in a way that is believable and complex. At times sympathetic. Other times, not.

Reminded me of his '... Murder of Jesse James' thing, which I think was directed by the same guy. 

The next morning while crapping my brains out, ready to jump in the shower and into the midst of another helter-skelter day, I found myself pondering Pitt - esp. the cynical, calculating aspect he'd displayed.

Made me wonder if his own life had turned out the way he'd thought.

This, in the midst of musings per my own, following a potentially career crunching email received the night before, and with my "give a sh*t" function somewhat on the blink, I tallied the sum of my 45 years: 

Eh,
I thought.

Message from god?
(Big G, little g, whatever)

I'm no Einstein -but- do okay slingin'** toilets. Maybe not my strongest suit, but as an old boss once said, "it's like being king of the retards."

Add in enough activity, though - explosions, buzzers, screaming babies, whatever - and even tiddly-winks gets challenging.

Frankly, the economy's come back in AZ with a vengeance -and- with man-power gutted and upper management holding fast in post-Recession fear (and let's face it, greed) there just ain't enough backs to lift the load.

Which means sh*t is slipping through the cracks. Which also means late night, ass-chewing communiques sent by top clients, threatening to jump ship.

(segue)

One thing I've gotten better at the last few years -  toilet slinging aside - is just being. Which seems like a "no duh" kinda thing, but really... isn't.

And yeah, I could be a bit more focused at times, a little more present in my own skin. The clock is ticking after all, and each moment spent vacuously swimming around in my own skull or lost in the herky-jerky ballet of work...

Eh. F*ck it. I'm gonna go have a beer.

Irony? Not intentional. Meanwhile...

Brad, I hope you're doing well. I think you're wife's probably batsh*t, and maybe you've painted yourself into a corner, isolated by fame and Hollywood machinations, but hopefully I'm wrong.

And as for myself?

I'm not bad, actually.

Not bad at all.

*Never seen a guy get his head blown off in more gorgeous fashion. And no, I'm not being sarcastic, though it is, admittedly, a strange sounding assertion.
**Selling
*** Icon of happiness pictured above - Liza the Dog.

A rhythmic tale

Human beings are the stories they tell themselves.

The snake don't eat it's own tail, he begets it - get it?

Chicken/egg, babe. Chicken/egg.

So
its 5:59 and this is my story.
(beat)
Who am I?
(say)
Who am I?

Its 5:59 and blue day callin'
(yes)
Who am I?
(oh)
Who am I?

Let's get right down
to the nitty
and the
grit of it;

roll our sleeves
back up
til
we are quit of it.

(unfinished)

Quote for the Day

Checkout guy goes, "you're really pushing the envelope with that basket."

"Sorry?" says I.*

He points at the little red grocery tote heaped with groceries, says it again.

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

I'd been napping previous to my grocery store foray and was a little slow on the draw.

But the phrase I liked; stuck with me.

Pushing the envelope with the basket.

*Okay, asked, technically. But the rhythm of the language and all that...

Outside its America

As a man breathes into a saxophone
And through the walls you hear the city groan.

"Bullet the Blue Sky" U2

Time Traveler's Daughter

Dreamt last night I was in Illinois at the house across from my old Jr. High.

Mom wasn't there but my sister was.* Several times, in fact.

Turns out dad'd been some kind of genius hacker in his youth "such a good looking guy he'd just waltz right in wherever and get access,"** planting computer programs in various agencies throughout the Mid-West.

The programs somehow combined to create time travel, as evidenced by the Kid, my sister,  plucked from different periods of her life, and now simultaneously present as:

Infant,
toddler,  
child,
teen-ager  
and adult   
(the latter supervising the others). ***

My father, meanwhile, argued on the phone with himself as a young man, who found the whole thing amusing.

*Interesting since my sister: 1. was never in that house 2. or even ever lived under the same roof as my mom,  coming from my dad's 2nd marriage.
**Told to me by a familiar, adult, comforting presence of whom I now have no recollection.
***Did remind me a bit, of the first time I saw my sister with her own little girl, pictured above, the spitting image of herself from days of yor.

You are here

Woke up this a.m., 4 o' clock, and dreaming.

Had been living with one of the showroom gals*, which was disturbing enough, but also with her frail little black cat, and when I walked into the bathroom the lid was up and he was there inside the toilet, resting in the water.

One of his eyes, btw, was different than the other. Vaguely human.

And when I woke, with my windows open and the birds singing sweetly in the street below, there was a bird there with me inside my bedroom, had alighted on a wooden slat of the blinds, then flitted off.

And then I really woke and what does it mean when little animals appear in your dreams?

*Yes, gals. Get over it.

Bird

Bony kneed,
pants puddled around ankles,
and sitting astride my porcelain thrown

- the coffee maker's
rythmic woof and chuff
masking
tinny bird's warbling
from
the street below -

I thought:

What the f*ck?

Does the coffee maker always make that sound?

But then it stopped and I could hear the birds, muffled, through the closed windows.

So I'm not losing my mind.

In that way, anyway.

In darkness and light

Outside MacAlpine's